


Follow You Down

by PookityPook



Category: Supernatural
Genre: I'm so sorry..., actually very AU, based off Dean's djinn universe, gets kind of Third Star-y at the end, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PookityPook/pseuds/PookityPook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Dean was never a hunter, but he was still always watched over?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow You Down

He was born on a cold midwinter evening. His mother never stopped smiling, though obviously exhausted, telling the tiny bundle in her arms he was being watched over. His father put some money away into a savings account, smiling too. It was snowing.

His mother never sang him lullabies. She sang him her favourite songs from her youth until he fell asleep. She told him he was being watched over. Sometimes he heard her and felt safe, even though he didn’t know what it meant.

When his brother was born, his mother carried him to the crib at the end of every day to say goodnight. His father then carried him to his bed to tuck him in. He would always ask his mother to come back and sing both of their favourite songs to him. She would always tell him he was being watched over, and then kiss the top of his head.

His father sometimes played ball with him. When he began school, he wouldn’t let his mother sing to him anymore, saying he was too old for those things. His mother laughed, told him not to grow up too fast. She didn’t tell him he was being watched over, but I was still there. Occasionally, I missed the songs.

Sometimes his parents argued; sometimes they fought. Sometimes his father left for a few days. Unbeknownst to them, he saw everything. He always told his mother that everything was going to be okay. He loved to hug her, and she would make him pie. But he never stopped observing, carefully, quietly. I watched his emotions flutter about like a bird.

He played football with his brother when he was old enough. His brother loved to read; he loved to build things, and to fix them. They got along, and for a while did almost everything together. Watching over him meant I was watching over his brother, too. I didn’t mind. Their curiosity got them both into trouble more than once.

He was extremely well liked by the girls at school. He liked them all in return.  He was confident and friendly, but didn’t keep any one person close by. He watched over his little brother in the halls; his brother protected the underdogs from bullies. I watched over them both.

His father got him his first car at sixteen; it was old and he fell in love with it right away. He spent most of his free time working on it, bringing it back to life, making it shine. His father taught him everything he knew. I watched as he took long drives and played his music loudly out of the windows. At times like this his soul soared, and I did too.

His mother cried at his graduation; his father clapped the loudest. He became an apprentice at a local garage. He savoured his freedom, seduced many young women. He experimented some and drank often. I hadn’t been watching very carefully when he crashed his car through a fence one night. I made sure I didn’t make such a careless mistake again.

Sometimes he did things that made his brother hate him. To make up for it, he always helped his brother study, even if he didn’t understand everything. He and I both watched as his brother graduated with a scholarship and went to a college far away. His pride was almost overwhelming, but I could also taste a flicker of frustration so faint that even he didn’t notice it.

His father died suddenly, but peacefully. His brother, successful now and healthy, flew in at once, and not alone. She was nice. He approved. I didn’t like the black that decorated everything, especially him. That night I paid extra attention. I was wary of the restrained, suffocated way his soul looked.

He met someone. At first he couldn’t tell if he hated the man or not, but there seemed to be some grudging mutual respect. It eventually grew into an iron-clad camaraderie. He appreciated the company. I didn’t appreciate the man’s reckless attitude. I had to watch them both very carefully as they got drunk, got into trouble, got into fights. Not always in that order.

I knew what to expect when it happened -- I had always known, been waiting -- but it felt wrong. It felt too soon.

He was with his friend, and they were in a fight. They were both quite drunk, and quite a bit smaller than the men with them in the alley. That didn’t bother them. Usually. This time though, I forced myself to watch as they struggled to hold their own. He was hit; I imagined I could feel the force of the impact, too. He fell; it jarred me. When he didn’t get back up, the attackers fled. His friend called for help, alarmed.

He was all right, the doctors told him when he woke up; he just got knocked out. But they had to do some x-rays to make sure there wasn’t any hidden damage to his head. When that was over, he was allowed to go home. The results should come in a few days, they said. I wanted to fade into oblivion knowing what was to come.

He spent those days visiting his mother, just relaxing, unaware. I was glad he was with her when he got the call. No signs of a concussion or otherwise, they said. But they found something. They wanted him to come in to the clinic. She wanted to come with him. That made him feel like a child, but I could see that he didn’t mind her presence as much as he said.

He had maybe a few months, maybe a year to finish living. Only I knew exactly how much time was left. I could see the ending; it was like it was circling around him, patiently drawing nearer, just like I was.

He became quieter, drank less, and didn’t exert any more energy than absolutely necessary on any one thing. That frustrated me the most. He still had so much vitality for someone so condemned.  He didn’t seek any distraction. I wished I could be distracted.

His brother, once by his side again, refused to leave it. With him, he acted like his old self. They endured all the tests, the treatments, together. They joked about it. I endured it silently.

He didn’t like visiting the hospital because he couldn’t flirt with the nurses, most of whom were considerably older than him. There wasn’t much they could do for him anyway, except give him more of what he needed to keep the burgeoning pain at bay. He took extra when he thought no one was watching. I was, and kept an eye on where he hid it.

He began losing strength quickly; I could feel it slipping away like spring water. His brother and his friend suggested a multitude of adventures to distract him. Eventually he agreed to a road trip across the country which would take them to the mountains. He told them he had always wanted to climb one. He insisted that they take his car, and insisted that he drive. I soared with them along the passing rivers and roads. I felt his brief flutter of regret at not saying the proper goodbye to his mother, on never seeing her again, as we flew.

The sight of the mountains made him forget everything for a moment. The sight of his soul unburdened for that moment almost made me forget, too. The climb was slow, frequented by stops. He never let the hurting show, but his mind wandered to his hidden collection of medicine more than once, especially when he couldn’t sleep. His brother could nevertheless tell that his regular dose was not doing enough. They pushed ahead.

When they stopped at a tiny, half-frozen lake, his friend found the stolen medicine. Shouts echoed through the trees, bouncing off the rocks, the water. Things previously wondered became things said. Guilt resonated around the clearing from three different directions. His brother and his friend did not let him out of their sight again. He didn’t resist. I drew nearer.

He was sitting by the water when he began to speak, strained and quiet, though no one was nearby to hear. I pretended he was speaking to me, though that was impossible. Most of his words were just fragments of thought.

He wished he had tried harder to make more friends. He was glad he had only one. He always looked up to his brother, while being the one looking out for him. Growing up, he never wanted to be anything. Fading away, he wanted keep growing up. He had his brother and his friend with him. He felt alone. He wished he had married. He was glad he hadn’t. He loved his family more than anything. Hated them for witnessing his deterioration.  He had always wanted to climb a mountain. Now that he had, it meant nothing. He wished he could wink out of existence and leave no trace.

When he was finished, I wished I was able to weep.

Eventually, he was joined by his brother and his friend by the water. They brought blankets and sat huddled together, not speaking a word. I was waiting; it felt like they were, too.

I approached slowly. Three breaths fogged the air. I couldn’t feel the cold.

It’s okay, he said hoarsely, almost silently. I thought he was reassuring himself, the others, as I came closer.

All of a sudden I couldn’t go nearer, I didn’t want to. I don’t know what stopped me; I’d never hesitated before. At this critical moment I was immobile, feeling like his gaze was directed at me, pinning me in place, no matter which way his eyes drifted. After waiting for so long, I was letting time escape me. Then he spoke again, and his words brought me tumbling back to earth.

It’s all right, it’s fine, I swear. He whispered this a bit louder than before. I’m waiting.

I didn’t even pause to consider what this must have sounded like to his companions. He knew I was there, was waiting for me, and I didn’t even think to consider that either as I finally closed the distance between us.

It was a cold midwinter evening that I couldn’t feel. Three puffs of breath became two as I finally collected him. I told him I had been watching over him. He said he knew, was smiling too. It was snowing.

**Author's Note:**

> This was another weird Writer's Craft project. I think I need to stop fangirling in my work. And making people cry with my stories.
> 
> But my reader's tears just taste so good...


End file.
